The Second Wave

 There were more of them now. They'd discovered that almost as soon as they'd been teleported to England. There were four more 'culprits' and four more characters. Of the four 'culprits', there were all sorts of ethnic backgrounds. There was Hanien, a girl from Dubai. There was a Scot named Fiona, Joanne's friend apparently. There was a Filipino girl who went by the name of Kriss - sometimes Krisscross - and Giovanna from Brazil. Hanien had brought with her Thomas LeFroy, Fiona had brought Dr. Nicholas Garrigan, with Giovanna was Robbie and Kriss had been accompanied by Max Campion - wait, Johnny Martin. Yeah, Johnny.
 They had resurfaced somewhere anonymous with absolutely no landmarks to speak of, which was where they'd found what they'd named 'The Second Wave'. They'd been sitting vacantly on the ground in pairs, the pairs leaning against each other, nobody saying anything. It took a while to determine the identity of Johnny but this was mostly due to the confusion over whether his Realised form would take the shape of his true form or of the supposed persona of Max. They were sat on a rolling hill in the middle of what they'd been informed within their head was English countryside.
 They had originally decided - at Brian's suggestion - to walk and walk and eventually they'd have to be directed where they were going by the Head Voice. They'd walked in relative oppression, but conversation had been present. It just wasn't the rowdy larks that had been had in the Meeting Place.
 "Do you think you'll ever try University Challenge again?" Joanne asked Brian, to which he replied, "I doubt they'd let me."
 "What's your favourite dish to make?" Tara asked Joe, to which he replied, "Vegetables. I hate cutting the heads off things."
 "Are the clothes okay?" Jan asked Mr. Tumnus, to which he replied, "My backside is burning up like the fires of Hades. But other than that I'm great."
 "Can you show me how to bend bullets?" Eliphia asked Wesley, to which he replied, "Considering I myself am fictional here, I'm sure that ability is just as unreal."
 Then they'd come across the eight subdued figures.
 "Hello?" Mr. Tumnus called, "Who have we here?"
 "Four characters, all male. Four culprits, all female," Nicholas returned, "You?"
 "Four in turn of each of the same."
 "What?"
 "Four characters, four culprits. Same gender split."
 "Fifi?!" Joanne cried.
 "Jo?" a cute, short girl replied, "You too, huh?"
 "Yup. Okay I can see you're with Nicholas Garrigan. Who's that behind you?"
 "Is it Robbie?" Jan squinted.
 "No it's Tom!" Eliphia decided.
 "Oh, yeah," Jan pointed to the other side of the path, "There's Robbie!"
 "And that would be Max - I mean Johnny - do I?" Tara concluded.
 "Yeah, the name's Johnny," he curled his accent around the words.
 The First joined the Second on the hill for an anxious catch-up. Now they were on their way to ...

Bristol

The Orb

 It flickered and buzzed as if its existence was only conditional on whether or not it actually desired to exist. It was a perfect sphere and was coloured a sort of translucent indigo. It hovered about the height of Pippin the Hobbit off of the ground. Shimmering, it was enticing, inviting them to set the world straight. For surely that was what it was, what they were looking for. This floating, insubstantial orb, was surely the reason they were in Chicago. Presumably, there would be others that they'd have to collect.
 Brian was fascinated. Brian loved to be fascinated. It was his favourite thing to be. Of course, he preferred to fascinate other people, but fascination was the next best thing. This was impossible. There was no projector attached to any wall anywhere. There was nobody shining a torch down the alleyway. There were no gaps in the brick-work where a light from a building could have shone through. Besides, this was the wrong shape. A ray of escaped light would be a straight line. This was a circle.
 The were in a slim alley fitted between the café they'd just left and a barber next door. Joanne had spotted a glint of blue teasing them from within and had grabbed Brian's sleeve to alert him. He'd alerted the rest of the group, which followed him and Joanne down the alley. Now they stood waiting, hoping for that voice to tell them what they were supposed to do. None came. Brian shot his hand through the light. It shimmered violently but recovered. He then proceeded to slap his forehead with the ball of his hand.
 "Idiot!" he cried, "Of course!"
 Jan raised an eyebrow, "What? Of course what?"
 "It's Wesley," Brian's eyes lit up, "It has to be Wesley!"
 "You mean...?" Wesley murmured, "You mean I can make it go away?"
 "Yeah," Brian nodded elatedly.
 Wesley readied himself and took a deep breath. He extended the tip of his finger into the blueness. Immediately, Wesley's entire form tinted blue, then returned to its regular hue with a twinkling flash of light. And the orb was gone.
 Wesley inspected his , then gingerly showed his fingertips to Brian, presuming that he'd know what to do. Brian nodded.
 "What is it?" Joanne asked.
 Wesley extended his index fingers and displayed them to the group. The tips were stained blue as if a ballpoint had exploded in his hands. He rubbed them gingerly against his thumbs but none of the colour was imparted to them. After a few moments, the smudges dissipated into defined rings that circumnavigated the spot just below his fingernail.
 "It's part of you now," Brian announced, "And we'll be hoping to follow your lead soon."

 Sooner than anyone had expected. Through another portal they plummeted, resurfacing in somewhere a whole lot chillier than Chicago.

Carl's Diner

 And so they were back. Though of course they hadn't moved. The information of their whereabouts had been temporarily blocked from their minds, in the same way that the fish had not been revealed to them, and they'd been refused existence of the room. In essence it was brainwash but what was inflicting it? What was placing that knowledge - whether truth or lies - into their brains? Eliphia and Wesley had talked about it many times and were now almost certain that they could beat it.
 When you look at a photograph, you're immediately flooded with memories of when it was taken. It happens with words too. When you say 'factory', you immediately picture a squalid lump of cement, with turret funnels protruding high into the sky, clouds of pollutant steam being born and unleashed into the world like a pet monster. Therefore, if they combined memory and images, they only had to associate a word -which had its own image - and an image with a memory.
 For example: The memory to be preserved was Eliphia walking to school. She associated the image of litter with the memory. She wrote litter on her arm. When she looked at the word litter, she saw litter, then jumped to the litter on the way to her school.
 So, to remember that a room existed beyond that door - the one where they'd been "convinced" it did not exist, just before they'd all met up - they remembered the room they'd started in. They concentrated on that and wrote 'room' with a pen in Wesley's pocket onto their forearms. They hadn't blinked as they stared at it and the struggle made their veins pop with effort to simply remember the concept of 'room'. Worrying what this meant the sinister power contained within the murky clouds of the ... room ... was capable of, they had felt their victory hollow.
 They didn't know what they'd have to remember but they were confident something would be "convinced" out of them. They relayed their instructions to everyone else ... and those were the last words they smoke in that place.

 Once again they plummeted through a tunnel of semi-consciousness and aroused in a café. It was night time but the darkness outside was halted at the window. Chairs slid in and out from tables and plates clattered like castanets. They were sat at a square table with two chairs to an edge.
 "Where are we?" Mr. Tumnus asked. Thankfully his clothes had teleported along with him and were now stretched uncomfortably across his form.
 The group collectively shrugged, except for one member.
 "Chicago," Wesley murmured, "I'm home."
 Eliphia could sense that Wesley had tensed up. His muscles were raised about a centimetre from where they'd lay, relaxed, in the flesh of his forearm. Eliphia placed a hand on his arm and rapped out a simple rhythm on it with her fingers. Yet Wesley did not seem to notice. Bones jutted out of his neck and his head trembled with the effort of staying still when he so obviously wanted to stand up.
 They were approached by a rotund man with a flabby face and puffing breath. His skin was coloured a deep, luscious violet, as if he'd only just completed the London Marathon. The veins on his arms and face were criss-crossed in a network of pink zig-zags, each line perhaps the width of a spider's leg. His eyes popped out of his head like an impaled pig's when he laid eyes on Wesley.
 "Wes?" he shook his head, "Why, I've not seen you since you gave that Janice a talking to. I didn't even have the chance to congratulate you, eh? That woman's needed putting in her place since the day she tapped her little infant foot and demanded a feeding."
 "Thanks, I guess, Carl," Wesley almost choked with nerves.
 "So where've you been? And who're all your friends? May I say those three gents do look a great deal like you," Carl furrowed his brow.
 "Well..." Wesley attempted.
 A startlingly accurate American accent sprang from Brian's lips, "We're his brothers."
"You never mentioned them, Wes," Carl tutted, "How negligent of you!"
 "Sorry," Wesley muttered.
 Carl took their orders and fussed a great deal over Tara, Joanne, Jan and Eliphia, whom Brian had gone on to list as 'cousins'. After a greasy burger and some fat chips, they were ready to move on.

Marching Order Map

Jan could tell how uncomfortable Mr. Tumnus was in the dungarees. The material scraped up and down his legs, ruffling the fur. Whenever he stood up, a protesting lump rose from the small of his back. When Jan referenced to it Mr. Tumnus leaned into her shoulder and whispered straight down her ear canal that it was in fact his tail. Jan spluttered in a mixture of laughter and horror at the fact that he thought he still had to hide. The room was of amicable temperature so Jan nodded at his pleading stare.
 Mr. Tumnus cleared his throat, "What I'm about to do may be misconstrued as somewhat salacious and I would like to now dispel these impressions. I want to make a good impression, really, I do, but this just has to be done."
 He whipped off his t-shirt first, then shimmied out of his trousers and propped himself back onto the table. He had expected a glance or two but even Jan was transfixed by his head, actually just above it.
 "Oh right," Mr. Tumnus reached his hand to his head, "Hat."
 And there was the faun. In no way hidden, with his horns, legs and tail on display for all humans to mock. But of course they didn't. They were like young Lucy. They'd never do anything to hurt him. No.
 "So it's true," Brian Jackson was the first to speak, "I assumed your legs and tail would become costume when you got here -"
 "Brian, stop," Jan warned.
 "I was just going to say that'd have been a right shame!" Brian protested.
 Jan grinned at him and Brian nodded his understanding.
 "So ... anybody else of a different species?" Mr. Tumnus ventured.
 "Shame Professor X isn't here," Eliphia observed.
 The group fell silent as they realised that, somewhere out there, Professor X and every other James McAvoy character could well be floundering around on their way here. Then they were interrupted.

 The half-essence squirted from countless nozzles that appeared around the room - more likely they had simply "not noticed" them - and swirled from lonesome tendrils into an angry mob of cloudy smoke that engulfed everybody in a shroud of confusion. They were paralysed by the smoke but each individual paranoid that he or she was the sole victim of this predicament. None need have feared, for had they been physically able to move, they'd have been rooted to the spot by an undefined terror that swooped around their veins, becoming them.
 They were not in that room, but they weren't anywhere new. It was as if their location was unimportant and so had been left out. They weren't anywhere, because they didn't need to be. If they could be described as anywhere, they were trapped in the murky depths that we tumble into when we close our eyes to sleep. They were of course - bodily - still in the exact same positions but their minds were nowhere.
 They saw a map, a map of the world. Marked out were many red blimps. They ranged around the western world - Great Britain, America - and there was even a single pulsing light in Africa. It became clear upon further inspection that this was placed specifically in Uganda. Sure enough, they all matched settings: one for Wesley in Chicago, one for Joe somewhere in England, one for Brian in Bristol and another somewhere in the English countryside. There were others all over the map but these four pulsed faster and brighter than the others. Nobody knew how they were supposed to get all these places - or to Narnia for that matter - but evidently those were their marching orders. They would find a way.

Custard Creams

 Joe MacBeth surveyed the inmates. They'd decided they were inmates since the doors had all shut simultaneously and of their own accord, not to mention we'd already been labelled as 'The Culprits'. The collected company could have been an insane pick-n-mix, a child throwing together all sorts of people like a selection of sweets. Joe also had the distinct impression that the entire group being 'gobbled' was not out of the question. The timid faces of the room's occupants suggested they suspected likewise - even the guy Wesley was shaking and he was apparently some kind of assassin or something. Joe hadn't contemplated being on this side of the butcher's knife. His guilt heightened.
 There were three other characters in the room and four culprits - including Tara. Maybe they weren't all culprits, just the girls. For they were all female. Was that just chance or ... The culprits - Joe thought he should perhaps instead refer to them as 'companions' - were of varying ages. There was a There were Tara and Jan, who looked fairly similar in age, though Joe couldn't have quite placed where. There was Joanne, unmistakably a teenager as she was still not full-height. And there was Eliphia who could have been either late teens or early twenties, somewhere around there. They were accompanied by Wesley, Mr. Tumnus - God knows what his age was - and Brian Jackson. Brian Jackson was interesting. He was apparently portrayed by James McAvoy in 2006, when the actor was twenty-six. Brian however, was adamant that he was eighteen years of age. Which he was, was a moral issue. Was he his character or his actor? Which was Joe? Joe had been written bad. Had James been written too? Which was he?
 All in all, it was best not to think about it.
 "What should we do, do you think?" Brian asked of nobody in particular.

 Stay put.







"Well why?" Joe asked, presuming they'd all been instructed the same.

 Your instructions will be ready soon. For now, please, have some biscuits. Enjoy yourselves, you won't be enjoying yourselves much longer. Make the most of it.






 Mr. Tumnus grinned and grabbed a custard cream. Jan tapped him on the shoulder as he did so and Tara realised he'd grabbed two, one for her and one for him. They were all sat on either chairs or edges of tables for there had not been enough chairs to accommodate them all. Those on edges of tables had positioned them to face another table, around which the chairs were arranged. Joe and Tara sat beside each other on the end of one, Jan and Mr. Tumnus on another. It had been vital that Mr. Tumnus claim a table for the chairs refused to accommodate his legs or tail, the poor faun. In the chairs were Eliphia and Wesley, on one side of the table, Joanne and Brian on the table's other side. All wore expressions a cocktail of fear, apprehension and disbelief, which made for a right glum bunch.
 They waited through thirty-seven minutes of nothing, timed almost to the second by Joanne and the watch she claimed to have had since primary five. Tara grimaced when the lunch they'd not noticed - they could guess what pesky half-essence had caused that little mix up - revealed itself on one of the tables not being sat on. It was fish. Tara's nose wrinkled upwards but she took a deep breath and nibbled her way through her share. She had no clue when next they'd be graced with more of these 'wonderful surprises'. Food could be days away. She ate the fish because she needed to, and didn't moan because she didn't want Joe to think her weak. Tara leaned on Joe once she'd finished, despite the suffocating aroma of breaded haddock that hung in the air. Joe held her steady on the edge of the table, bracing himself with the ball of his hand on the edge of the table's surface. Joe's stubble and floppy hair were pillow and duvet to Tara and she even managed a seven-minute nap to break the monotony. Despite herself she was happy, happy to be with her friends and four imaginary people she knew inside out.

Together

Brian grimaced as he zipped down the labyrinth of corridors. He detested the unknown, and yet here he was running straight into its welcoming arms - or punishing claws. He could have gone slower, in fact he reckoned Joanne would have been very grateful if he had, but he had to know. He had to know what was waiting for him. Mystery left too much to the imagination. Mystery meant he could be about to plunge into a tank of starved sharks, or be shut in a black room full of bats, or vampires, or werewolves, or monsters, or rabid dogs. Anything. He could promise himself that there was no such thing as Dracula but what if James McAvoy had done a stint as him and he was waiting around here somewhere too. Or worse. A cannibal. He hoped this guy had a tendency to play humans. Humans who did NOT eat other humans.
Then they came to the door. It had a great red disc for a doorhandle this time, instead of the maritime wheel from before. The door itself was clear but the view inside was...well it wasn't. It must have been the half-essence again because as much as he told himself there was a room beyond, something calmly assured Brian that there wasn't.
"That looks like a KFC door!" Joanne exclaimed.
Brian's stomach growled "Lunch." Brian patted it fondly and assured himself he'd get food soon. He doubted it but "something" told him he would. By now they could hear voices at the opposite end of the room and judged that it was maybe the size of the average classroom. Brian guessed that whatever waited on the other side would be far more sinister.
Joanne stood close to him and, though he fists were taught in fists, her entire being was trembling, and it wasnt particularly cold. Brian held her closer and wrapped an arm round her.
If he'd had X-Ray vision, he'd have glimpsed around the four compass points three girls or women of varying ages being held in a similar embrace by three figures who each held striking resemblance to himself and each other, even that fellow with the goat's legs.

 Enter Convergence.

 The door swung automatically into the room. Brian glanced a few inches down and to his left to match his sight line with Joanne's. She inhaled sharply and nodded. They shuffled through the door.
 The room was lined with shiny wooden planks, the kind that make you sound like an expert tap dancer as soon as you flip out a quick heel-toe. A few chairs were cluttered around the room and the half-essence had completely dispelled. The tables were constructed of an old oak wood with swirling age rings. Brian had been told to expect Wesley Gibson, Mr. Tumnus and Joe MacBeth. He spotted the faun immediately and heard the bearded man say something to the faun in a very Scottish accent so he presumed that was Joe and that the other man was Wesley.
 They were together.

Convergence

Wesley awoke in Eliphia's spare bedroom, disorientated to the point of dizziness. He recovered from almost falling out of the bed and sat up against the headboard. He had slept in a white T-shirt and a pair of boxers, the T-shirt a hurried purchase from Primark and the underwear he was already wearing. He could not figure out where he'd put his trousers and severely hoped Eliphia lived alone for he would simply have to go to breakfast without them. He sauntered downstairs and his wish was granted. Whether she lived alone or not, Eliphia was alone right now. He wasn't especially pleased to be trouserless when he'd known Eliphia under twenty-four hours, but at least she knew his predicament.

 Eliphia was sat at the table when he entered, munching on some toast. Wesley raised his eyebrows at the toaster to ask if he could make some for himself. Eliphia nodded and motioned to the cupboard that housed the bread. He hauled out the bread and slipped it into the toaster.

 "So that thing that said we had to go to all the settings for these filmsand TV shows?" Wesley turned to Eliphia.

 "Yeah?"

 "Do we have to meet up with all these other people too?"

 "Well, I'm presuming not all characters were being watched and -"

 "Please, don't say characters," Wesley grimaced.

 "All the ... people. I think we just meet up with those four people and go to those four places."

 "Where are we?"

 "New Delhi."

 "How are we going to get to Chicago?! I'll never get home."

 And then they were both tumbling. Eliphia a first-timer, Wesley practically a veteran by now, they slid through layers of reality - real, daydream, fafantasy, nightmare - then climbed doggedly back through to the real world. They were in a grey box room, lined with the half-essence that had slipped out of Eliphia's television. The floor was constructed of mirrors and Eliphia wondered if any Scottish characters had been ejected, and whether they'd be wearing kilts. Everybody knew what went on under a kilt.

 Proceed to Convergence.

 Wesley motioned to a metal door with a great tiller of a doorknob he leaned to the right and hauled open the door.

Spock Meets East 17

It would be considerably more difficult for Jan to take Mr. Tumnus out for dinner. Not because she highly doubted ever dragging him away from that electric kettle, though that was of course quite a major issue. No, mostly on account of his being a faun. X-Men had proved that the World could not accept even mutants, a species radically similar to their own so what hope did Mr. Tumnus, only half human and with a tail, have? Not much, was the answer but Jan was determined to get him outdoors. He would want to see this world. Tara had informed her that Joe had kept his head low and not been recognised as James, and so Mr. Tumnus, with an altered nose to that of his actor, would be safe if they could conceal his lower half.
"Any ideas?" Jan asked him as he flicked the kettle with a fingernail.
He finally turned around and remembered where he was, "You mean to get me outside, Ma'am?"
"Jeez, called me Jan! And yes that's what I mean."
"Well, how big are your trousers? I know my legs bend a little but I could pretend to be crippled. What about the horns?"
"Hat. And I'll get, like, some Giant Elizabethan Trousers from the fancy dress shop."
"Thank you very much. Is there anything I can do to help?"
"Well, try to get used to technology and electricity," Jan handed him a tablet computer, "And remember, stay out of sight of the windows."
Mr. Tumnus nodded.

The shop had had one pair, ragged and full of holes, which would have given passage to the fur that hugged Mr. Tumnus's legs. She had proceeded to a charity shop, intending to sew together a jumble of decaying garments. What had been almost at the forefront when she'd entered the shop was a pair of loose dungarees in denim XXXL. Presumably that would accommodate the bow in his legs and provide sufficient cover to fool an observer into thinking he simply had the legfs of an elephant. They may have been women's but that wouldn't matter.
When she showed them to Mr. Tumnus, Jan realised he'd never worn clothes on his legs before and that apart from the scarf he was actually stark naked. Jan took a moment to appreciate this then it occurred to her that he must be freezing in this British summer. He shoved them on, and Jan remembered he'd survived the White Witch's eternal winter and was almost sad he'd had to cover up. No matter, she slung him a long-sleeve T-shirt and and woollen skater hat, both of which she'd discovered in the same shop as the dungarees.
"Well, what species do I look?" Mr. Tumnus ventured hesitantly.
"A cross between a member of East 17 and Spock."
"Sorry?"
"Well, your ears are sort of pinned up, so they look like Spock's. The East 17 thing is the hat."
"No, I meant who're East 17? And who's Spock?"

'Baby, I Love You': A sing-song

Tara and Joe received the message just as they were preparing to go out for a meal. Joe's brain was sharper than Brian's - in a way - and had taken to the idea that he had been created long ago by a playwright far easier than his teenage Essex look-alike. He took it as a signal from the universe that he'd been forgiven for his crimes, but those were crimes unforgivable. Clearly, he was supposed to atone for his sins. Unfortunately, this new knowledge of how he'd come to be here, seemed to dictate that one day, he'd have to return to the kitchen, return to Peter's knife. He didn't mind. He deserved it. One more month he'd have. He would make use of it. Nobody else would die, not if he could help it.
"Tara," Joe furrowed his brow, "What did...whatever that was...mean by plural 'culprits'? Are there more of you?"
"Three more that I know of," Tara finished tying her shoelaces.
"Who? Can we go see them?"
"I doubt it. None are on this continent."
"Well, where are they?"
"Two are in the UK, one in Scotland actually, so sounds a bit like you. The other is in India."
"How do you know them? That new Facebook thing?"
Joe's story having taken place in 2005, Facebook was still a little baby in his eyes. Twitter wasn't there at all either. So Tara showed him the James McAvoy Fan Club, as well as an IMDB review of the BBC series 'Shakespeare Retold'.
"Well, I can see the attraction," Joe muttered, "I mean, that is one good-looking fellow."
"He looks exactly like you!" Tara chuckled.
"Exactly!"
Before Joe could break into a round of 'Baby, I love you', Tara received a Facebook message from Jan. Evidently there was a faun in her kitchen, staring lovingly at the kettle, totally mystified by a device that halved the time he took to make tea. According to Jan, he hadn't moved since he found it, seven minutes ago. It was like he'd been turned to stone...
Tara's stomach would wait for none, however and so she suggested Jan fed the faun and herself, then she and Joe set out for dinner.

Joe decided he liked Tara. She obviously knew even his darkest secrets and exactly what would become of him if he returned. She could sense what he wished, that he wished for Peter's revenge more than anything, she knew he wanted to die. He could tell she did not want this, but she seemed to respect this, and was willing to help him. Of course, it could be that this actor and all his non-murderer characters were the motivation for her desire to assist him, but she didn't try to warn him of what was coming, or how he could dodge the knife when he got back. He would die, she knew, and yet she let him go. This Joe was grateful for. He would happily spend this last month with Tara.
"It feels strange being on this side of the kitchen doors," Joe mused, "I guess this is what it's like for your actor guy when he's watching his movie...or BBC miniseries..."
"Well, I doubt the food will be as good as yours but the pizzas here are respectable."
Joe pointed to a dish, "This pizza has chips on - sorry, fries, I guess," then he lowered his voice to a hushed whisper, "Is this place run by infants...?"
"No, no, no, that's government you're thinking of. No, this place has top-quality chefs and waiting staff."
A man in chequered trousers emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray in one hand and twisting his pinky finger around in his nostril. A chunk of lamb made to slip off the plate but the man yanked his finger out of his nose and patted it back into place. Tara noticed a sign in the window and motioned to Joe with her arm.
'New Management' read the sign.
"I've not been here since..." Tara trailed off.
"Seems like the turn my kitchen took under my new management," grumbled Joe.
Tara took Joe's hand and offered him a consoling smile.
"Anything is an improvement upon Duncan Docherty," she promised, "Even cold-blooded mass assassination. What made you do it?"
"My wife..."
"Well, I think it's safe to say you are most well and truly whipped."
"Yes. Extremely," Joe took a sip from the wine Snot-Nose had brought him.
Tara began to hum 'Baby, I love you', "Hmmmm hm-hm hmmm hm."
  "Hm hm HM-hm," Joe replied, "Come on, Babyyyy."

The Abberation

 The world is not built to accommodate such subtle flawlessness. One who can be so intelligent  and  thoughtful and dorky and humble and gracious and charming is not by nature intended to be  also in  command of  such fine looks and quick wit. The ways of the world dictate that a being of  such  blissful personality should be condemned to eternal acne and sprawling limbs that dangle  around  one's person like an ill-fitting Christmas Cardie. James McAvoy is an aberration. The  universe has adapted to cope with him, but multiple would be a disaster.
 That is what you have done. The universe short-circuited and expelled his various embodiments  into the world in which he lives. It is vital that this error be rectified within the month or the  consequence shall be the total destruction of the fact that James McAvoy ever existed. His parents  will deny ever having given life to him, his wife will deny ever having married him, his friends and  directors and screenwriters and everybody he ever met, spoke to or influenced in any way will be  unaware of his ever having lived. Because he will not have. His son, too, will cease to have any  bearing in the world.
 It has fallen to you, the culprits and the characters to put right this overload. You must travel to  the homes of each character that's been ejected, fictional location or otherwise. All  must be accomplished for the Universe is proud to boast James McAvoy, and, if he is lost, a terrible sadness will fall upon the world, though nobody shall know why. Plants will wither and crops will not grow and humans will begin to lash out at each other at the slightest provovation. The world will not die, but it shall be a gloomy place to live.

 Brian Jackson turned to Joanne with a grin of delight on his face.
 "That was so cool!" he declared.
 "Yes, yes it was," Joanne agreed, baffled by the sudden revelation that cynicism was futile.
 "Who's this James McAvoy everyone's going on about?" Brian knitted his eyebrows.
 "He's ... an actor."
 "I've never heard of him."
 "I'm not surprised."
 "What's he look like?"
 "You."

 James had taken quickly to the situation and Joanne guessed that was his tendency to take evidence without dispute, to believe anything so long as it was proven to him. The simple fact of what he'd experienced had been enough to convince him of the truth. He did not however understand his peril, his grave, grave peril of utter obliteration.
 "Brian," Joanne murmured, "There's something you should know."
 She picked up the case for the 'Starter For 10' DVD and showed him the picture. It was a photograph of the day he'd messed up. In fact, he didn't ever remember it having been taken but he'd tried desperately to rid his memory of everything that day contained, except the knowledge that whatever he'd done, he'd do it differently next time. Brian spotted a name printed in black above his head and nearly joked on his very flat 'Irn Bru', a drink he'd heard of a few times before and had convinced him he truly was somehow in Scotland.
 The name was James McAvoy.
 "He does look like me!" Brian gasped, "Why's he look exactly like me?"
 "Because he ... played you."
 "You mean they made a movie about us? I never even knew."
 "Well, you wouldn't, considering this movie was made in 2006. Or 2007, I can never remember."
 "The 21st century! But it's 1985! Did I TIME TRAVEL?!"
 "Evidently," Joanne murmured, "Look, nothing about this makes any sense but this is going to be hardest. Ready?"
 "No, but go on."
 "You are fictional."

Unsaid Things

 It was a nice towel, Wesley decided. It was soft and fluffy and hugged him warmly a new-age father figure he'd never had - especially needed on what had been both the most glorious and strangest day of his life. He'd - finally - taken revenge on the man who'd killed his father. Sort of. Technically, of course, he'd been the one to kill him, but the way he saw it he'd been used purely as a weapon by Sloan to do the Fraternity's dirty work.
 He dried himself then shoved on his clothes and emerged from the bathroom to find Eliphia. That was her name, the girl. He wasn't entirely certain that he was awake yet. In fact, he'd many times turned the temperature to its coldest attack and let the icy drips splatter on his back. The pain and shock were so intense that he'd surely have awoken had they been generated by only his imagination. He'd not awoken and so, by Sherlock Holmes logic, he must have been awake already.
 "So," he opened, too fed up to extend pleasantries, "How d'you suppose we should get me back?"
 "Well, first off, yes I do have a lovely home, thanks so much for asking," Eliphia's words spelled an insult but sounded vaguely like flirtation, "Second of all, how am I meant to know how to get you back?!"
 But they were about to find out.

 The instructions were not written down. What Wesley and Eliphia discovered was not a scrap of weathered paper or a beaten scroll that disintegrated upon unravelling. It was still in the process of creeping out of the television screen and so Wesley and Eliphia did not in fact notice it at first. Eliphia had made tea and Wesley had been so overcome with guilt at his earlier gloom that he had thanked her so profusely for the tea that he almost outdid Mr. Tumnus's rambling about how glad he was to finally have a purpose for a handshake. Eliphia was glad that he'd lightened up, for she'd always hoped that after he gets his revenge on Sloan, Wesley would finally be happy. At least now he had a purpose. To get home. She hoped he didn't leave too soon.
 It was Eliphia who noticed it first. She'd just swallowed the final dregs of her tea and slammed the mug down onto the coffee table with such force that Wesley assumed she was still begrudged towards his ill humour. He attempted to apologise but Eliphia hushed him and motioned to the slither of cloud-like semi-mass that was crawling out of the television screen. Then Wesley saw it too. It was almost menacing, but it did not seem harmful. It was more that there appeared to be malice in its mystery, in the way it gave no indication as to what it was, or its business either.
 Then they heard the Voice. Except it wasn't a voice. It skipped the whole transmission step and jumped straight into their heads. Eliphia glanced at Wesley. His whole form was rigid. His stolid forearms were tensed as were the tendons in his neck. Even his floppy hair was still, unwavering. Wesley was not scared. He was defiant. Eliphia knew she had to be the same way - or at the very least attempt to be. She braced herself as the words took shape.
 They were not spoken, but gradually Eliphia knew exactly what they contained within them. There were no exact words, just meanings. They could almost be taken for assumptions if Eliphia could not tell from Wesley's stricken face that he was experiencing the same thing. His courage was not flawless, but it was admirable. Eliphia did her best not to tremble as she learned of the Realisation Phenomenon.

The Final First - Jan and Mr. Tumnus

Jan had the polar opposite weather situation to Tara. Her rain clouds were swelling and lightning was attacking the ground with surprising vehemence. What had the ground done? It provided them with ways to go places in the towns and stopped them from being sucked into the Earth's mantle. The world would quite literally be lost without it. Jan was tucked safely away inside, with a jumper over her shoulders but open so that her t-shirt could still be visible...y'know, just in case James happened to walk past the window.
 She had chosen The Chronicles of Narnia, always entranced by James's ability to merge into even the least realistic of beings. Not to mention that whenever she watched the film she was reminded of his predicament while filming it: bright green tights. It sometimes made her giggle, sometimes made her squirm with pleasure. Today it did both and her face split along the length of her smile. Today the weather didn't matter, because James was on her screen, on at least four screens somewhere in the world, and the beautiful, fluttering flakes of snowy crystals that landed on Jamesy's shoulders were the real weather.
 Admittedly James was rather a supporting character in this film but he most definitely had a very important role. He started it all. There would be no reason for a film without Mr. Tumnus, for Lucy Pevensie would have gone straight home, possibly believing her siblings that this entire snow world had in fact been a dream. There was a reason they called them 'Supporting Characters'; they held everything up. No matter, he did reappear later on of course and, once the movie was over, Jan waited for his face to pop up in the credits.

 Mr. Tumnus felt time freeze. He was waving to young Lucy Pevensie and her sister Susan as they embarked on their bi-daily hunting trip - Mr. Tumnus was unsure whether this meant twice a day or every other day, for he was normally out gathering wood for his fireplace and their schedule appeared rathe erratic to him. Anyways, he could not move. Nobody moved. He plummeted through a tunnel of abstract grey semi-consciousness and heard particles slamming from the clouds to the ground.
 Oh God. Was the snow back? No, it was rain. It wasn't the beautiful sun he'd had a moment ago, but at least the White Witch hadn't returned. He glanced his eyes around the room he found himself in and noticed a woman staring startled at him. He rose from the floor and dusted down his furry legs.
 "Excuse me," he attempted to establish his manners before absolutely everything he thought he knew was dispelled, "But who are you and where am I?"
 "Well..." Jan croaked, "My name is Jan and I come from England. Actually, that's where the Pevensies are from."
 "Oh, well then I feel very sorry for your predicament."
 "Sorry?" then Jan remembered the time setting for C. S. Lewis's masterpiece, "Oh, you mean the war? That's been over a long time. You remember how time passes differently in our two worlds? Well, it is the year 2013."
 "That, I'm very sorry to say, means absolutely nothing to me but it's nice to meet you."
 Jan extended her hand.
 "I still don't understand the point in this..." Mr. Tumnus murmured as he returned the gesture.
 "Ah, well you're in luck!" Jan had seen an explanatory episode of QI, "It's a gesture that demonstrates you are unarmed, because you would be holding a weapon in your right hand, which is what you shake with."
 Mr. Tumnus squeezed Jan's hand with renewed vigour and, with a dazzled twinkle in his eyes, he gushed, "Thank you very, very much. I've been troubling with that ever since I made the acquaintance of Queen Lucy Pevensie and I'm glad to have something to finally settle it so yes, thank you, thank you very, very much."
 And with that the faun swept her into a swift embrace of gratitude, before releasing his stunned new friend and, regaining his manners, bowed low and long. Jan curtsied. Mr. Tumnus smiled.

The First - Tara and Joe

Tara and Joe

Tara had chosen to watch the Shakespeare Retold for the McAvoy mania, but unfortunately had either misplaced her DVD, or never had it in the first place, the facts have long since been lost -
at least to my knowledge. Consequently, she'd been reduced to watching it on her laptop. She sat with it on her lap and had to keep clicking 'Next Video' every nine minutes. I'm sure you see what's coming by now but let me see this through, okay.
 So, Tara had had a long day. It had begun with one of the chickens taking unwell, continued with forgetting where she'd left the all-important shirt, and ended with her laptop trundling through a mountainous fourteen updates before finally allowing her the privilege of a singing McAvoy. She needed something to salvage this day. James McAvoy was it. Joe MacBeth was it. Sure, he'd killed some people but dear Lord his voice. Tara could barely control herself around such staggering protection.
 The weather had returned from Britain and the sun was glinting in through the window. Tara normally didn't understand the appeal of the Sun to Brits; it just made you sweaty and grumpy. But, after weeks of experiencing her McAvoyer friend Jan's weather, she was grateful to have her own back. She doubted the Brits were grateful for the rain. Oh well, James had grown up in it and it did him well. Maybe this brief torrent was good for her.

 Scotland is cold. If Joe MacBeth took nothing from life, he would be happy to die knowing he hadn't missed that fact. He'd have been happier if he wasn't about to be killed by Peter but he guessed that was how the world worked. He killed, he'd be killed. He could live by those rules. He'd die by them too.
 This is why he was grateful for a second chance in the form of some sort of Shakespearian era witchcraft. The first thing he noticed was the temperature rocketing, the humidity engulfing him and his face being at a woman's shoulder. She cried in horror, then seemed to relax, slightly. He levered himself off of her and hit some sort of slim computer that was on her lap. He started when he saw Peter's face grimaced in fury on its surface and slithered off the woman's recliner chair.
 "Why's it so hot? Am I in the oven at the restaurant? How did you get that computer? Is it from MI5 or something?"
 "It's America. No. I bought it. How would I get a laptop from MI5?"
 "That's not a laptop. It looks like it came from outer space!"
 Tara supposed it was pretty sleek but then it occurred to her that although this was a modernized version of an ancient story, it still took place eight years ago. If this was Joe MacBeth, whom it did appear to be, then he'd never even have heard of an Iphone.
 "It'll make sense...eventually. Do you fancy I dunno...popping back into it?!"
 Joe tapped the screen, his fingertip bouncing defiantly off, declaring him well and truly STUCK.

The First - Brian and Joanne

Brian Jackson

 Joanne had always been proud to be Scottish, always worn her tartan skirt to school even though most of her friends just wore black ones. In fact, she habitually accompanied it with tartan baseball shoes. She'd been to Highland Games, had a friend - two, in fact - who played bagpipes, went to Ceilidhs whenever she could. She did not however, understand the magnetic attraction to her country's accent. That is, until she found James McAvoy.
 She was rather late in discovering him. In fact, it only happened a few months before the Realisation Phenomenon, when she saw Trance in the cinema. It opened with a monologue that melted her eardrums and unlocked the secret to why she was so lucky to be Scottish. She was self-conscious for a while that she was losing it, but eventually realised that she'd taken to impersonating James on certain words and so the word 'know' came out all Essex, like Brian Jackson.

Brian Jackson returned to University after his humiliation only to find himself faced with a foreboding vortex that sucked him out of his world and into somewhere wet. His fringe flopped lazily over his forehead, having surrendered long ago to its owner's lack of interest in its upkeep. Brian flipped it back in surprise as he realised where he was. The girl before him was white as a sheet and was sat beside a hoodie with a saltire on it. Not to mention it was raining. He was in Scotland.

The First - Wesley and Eliphia

 The first wave of characters to be expelled from digital medium included: Brian Jackson (Starter for Ten), Wesley Gibson (Wanted), Joe MacBeth (Shakespeare Retold) and Mr Tumnus (The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe).

Wesley Gibson

 The t-shirt was a good fit and Eliphia reckoned it brought out her eyes. She'd been extremely looking forward to this day, its feeling of community. Also, James in Wanted was more delicious than her dinner! Wesley had just finished blowing Sloan's brains out and enquiring what the f*** she'd done lately - sexy from no other mouth - and Eliphia had just finished her dinner. She contemplated watching it again but instead made to switch to Atonement, for she fancied a little intellectual James for a while. Robbie was such a brilliant person that even James admitted he was perfect. That means a LOT.
 James McAvoy is a perfect specimen of human - in Eliphia's opinion of course - but also in the minds of many others he was fantastic, marvellous, exciting, brilliant, adorable. He was James. The words 'James McAvoy' are synonymous with all listed adjectives. Eliphia would have given a great deal to ... well, maybe I shouldn't divulge what goes on inside a McAvoyer's mind. She liked to imagine that the shirt she was at that moment wearing had been the exact one seen at SDCC. That'd have been cool.

Wesley Gibson was exhausted. His mind was raw from the events of the past few weeks and he'd have loved nothing more than to crawl into a cubby-hole somewhere and hibernate. But this was not to be. He was hurled through a grey blackness that ended with a bright speck, which grew and grew into an eye. A lovely eye, but Wesley would much rather have been less than an inch from whoever belonged to it. He fell backwards slightly.
 "Wesley," he muttered.
 "Eliphia," she replied.

It Begins

It began with a shirt. Or a comic convention. Or a social networking site. Or a man and woman who lay down thirty-four years ago and gifted the world with their creation, a human being so incredible, so flawless and humble with his own perfection that if you let yourself think about him for too long, you will be lost forever in the Scottish Vacuum of Charm that is James McAvoy. If you are unfamiliar with the man - and I rather suppose if you're lapping up this lore as eagerly as I hope, then you in fact are familiar with him - I would suggest getting your life together and zipping straight over here.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/James_McAvoy

 Now that we've discarded the unlearned, let me continue with our tale...

 SDCC

 San Diego Comic Con is a pilgrimage made by every American nerd, geek, fangirl and fanboy with even the slightest intention to earn the title of nerd, geek, fangirl or fanboy. Some people describe it as Christmas. But it's not. Everybody gets Christmas - who wants it. Only a select few have the funds and geographic ability to attend this Mecca of fandom culture, none of which were our heroes - but I'll get to them later. Somebody [very special] who was there, was James McAvoy, with the cast of X-men.

The Shirt

 

 

I know, I know, I shouldn't distract you, but I have to outline the situation properly. This is the shirt that started it all. This is the one that caused the Realisation Phenomenon, but again, I'm getting ahead of myself.

 

 

The Social Networking Site

 

 

 

Soon Facebook was alive with the sound of a plan. Amazon would be scoured, the Internet would be turned inside-out, but we would clad ourselves in the way James chose, we would have a connection to him. (If you are one of those people who says 'Ew, that's pretty stalkery', I would leave now 'cause I doubt it's gonna get a whole lot more sane.)

 Anyhow, a few weeks later - August, it was - an anonymous fangirl/fanboy set up a James McAvoy fan page and declared to the James McAvoy Fan Club where the shirt, that eluding shirt that had almost slipped our minds, almost escaped our radar, could be found just a few clicks from us. We were provided with a link, and a varying (by location) duration of time later, we donned our X-men shirts and celebrated. If we ever had occasion to meet Jamesy Boy, we'd have a suitable conversation starter and instantly make a good impression.

 We hatched a plan. On the first of September, 2013, we would watch a James McAvoy movie or television show of our choosing, one each, and know that our internet friends were doing exactly the same. What we did not expect was the phenomenon that would be consequence. See, there was an overload of perfection. Our screens couldn't cope with the absolute infinity of James Andrew McAvoy's awesomeness. His acting skills fried their wires, having him in so many roles at once caused the circuits to scream out in agony the phrase "DOES NOT FREAKIN' COMPUTE!!" and reject the entire premise that one man could be so talented.

 And so it was, on September 1st, 2013, the world flooded with McAvoy characters. This is the tale of how this was set right, for everybody knows, there is only one James McAvoy.